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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261176">Little Sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokii/pseuds/tokii'>tokii</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:20:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,416</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokii/pseuds/tokii</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>These stories tell of the adventures of Rán, a young viking girl, and Bára, a river she named in her mother's honor. Featuring Ragnar, Bjorn, and original characters.</p><p>Tag: Yellow to Dark Purple (Fine - Moderate).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Little Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisthoe/gifts">sophisthoe</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Part I</p><p> </p><p>            The skipping stone mars the pristine image of the sun, the bleeding light cast in fiery ripples across the water’s surface. The light slips low and red behind the cresting river, forest air hanging thick and damp above the little brook surging at the shoreline with the strength of yester night’s rainfall. Rán tucks her tangled curls behind her ears, sighing a whispery breath that rolls and curls above the bubbling brook.</p><p> </p><p>            “What am I to do, Bára…” Rán runs her thin hand atop the lapping water, a chilled wave nipping at her fingertips. “Do you like that name? Bára… It is pretty, isn’t it.” The brook burbles sweetly in response, swirling about Rán’s twirling finger. “I thought of it on the road from cousin Halvar’s… when the sun was at its highest, we crossed a great, mossy bridge that sunk low in the middle. And beneath the bridge, there was a little creek that wound around the roots of old, upturned pines. I thought to myself, ‘they look like the worn halls of many earls long dead, wood left rotten and stinking, all piled beside each other in a forgotten village. And the creek is the only one left to remember the people who had once lived here.’”</p><p> </p><p>Bára nudges Rán’s idle hand with a rolling wave, prodding her fingers to movement. Rán continues stroking the cool water’s surface, her soft voice humming over the burbling of the brook, “I named you Bára in honor of my mother. She had always prayed to the gods for nine daughters, one for each of the nine spirits of the sea. She left offerings to Ægir and went to ask the seer about the many daughters she would have. When she met him, he hunched over and pointed at her like this,” she gestures, bunching her face together, ‘You are not practical, but you are kind. And the gods see this. They will give you one daughter; one will be given to you to show the mercy of the gods.’” Rán sniffles, tucking her frizzled locks behind her ears once more, “When we crossed the mossy bridge and I saw the creek winding through those sad, rotting roots, I thought of the dead. And how sad it is that in the end, there is no one left to remember them. But the creek was there, remembering, traveling through the empty halls. And you are here. So, I want you to remember. My mother named me Rán, after Ægir’s wife, the sea goddess. And I name you Bára, after their daughter.”</p><p> </p><p>Bára bubbles, icy water bursting around Rán’s wrist. “It is decided then,” Rán nods, “We are like sisters now. And I have named you for my mother so that you do not forget her when I am too old to visit you…” Rán pats the reddening water playfully, the sun slipping lower into the earth. “My mother was named after a god, too. Her name was Eira, after the goddess Eir. Eir was a merciful Valkyrie who was known to guard warriors and shield-maidens. Hers was the gift of protection…”</p><p> </p><p>Rán frowns, wrinkling her orange brows until her face begins to hurt, “What am I to do, Bára… My mother was named after a Valkyrie and she couldn’t protect herself.” Rán lays her face in her dripping hands, coolness trickling down to her elbows and pit-pattering on her mud splattered dress. Bára laps at Rán’s bare feet, smooth pebbles lifting and rolling down into the reddened shallows.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got it!” Rán’s head shoots up, Bára’s shallows sent coiling into her rocky depths. “We are sisters now, Bára. You can be my protector if you’d like.”</p><p> </p><p>Bára stills, the last sliver of sunlight catching on her waters, the ruddy brook cast altogether into a golden mirror. Rán reaches for the water’s edge and Bára recedes further into herself, marring the surface of sun-dipped glass with quickened ripples.</p><p> </p><p>“Bára?” Rán calls to the gathering swell in the center of the quiet brook. “Will you not be my protector?” The words fade as she speaks them, spilling into the forest space no louder than a whisper. She watches Bára’s huddled waves, the stones at her feet suddenly dry and cool. “Fine,” Rán picks herself up from the rocky shore, staring hard into the middle of the brook. “I do not need you to protect me…” Her eyes well with tears, “I do not know why I asked.”</p><p> </p><p>The sun plunges into the waters, thrusting the forest into darkness, Bára’s form sliding beneath the black veil. Rán turns on her heels and charges up the soggy bank, tugging on the damp branches of leaning trees. A low, mournful tune burbles from the brook through the stillness behind her. Rán squeezes her eyes shut, blinking away the burning tears, and pumps her arms as she sprints deeper into the woods.</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part II</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn picks his way through the leaf litter down toward the western bank. “I do not see why she couldn’t have just said hello,” he mumbles to himself, kicking up a clot of rotting leaves. “She is as stubborn as her father.” He cranes his neck and squints at the sun splintering through the uneven canopy, the light zigzagging through the balding tops of staggering birches. He whistles tunelessly upward, a lone bird answering his call in song from a hidden perch. The rushing of nearby water drowns the bird’s song as Bjorn breaches the woodland border, sun scattering brilliantly across a fitful creek. He grins as he catches sight of the girl pacing the creek’s edge, her face flushing as she curses at the ground, her fiery curls bouncing on her back. He hops gingerly to the wide base of a saggy tree, crouching low. Her voice carries to the forest’s edge, soft and sweet despite the malice in her words.</p><p> </p><p>            “You smell of rotten fish bellies,” Rán scowls at the water, bending to inspect the misshapen pebbles dotting the creek’s edge. She plucks a flat, rounded stone from the bed, rolling it between her fingers, “This will show you…” Rán whips her wrist over the water, the stone skipping hard and fast, curving over the building surge. A ripple swells into a wave and swallows the stone, collapsing into calm as quickly as it built. She curses and kicks at the water, well, near the water. She stops short and digs her foot into the sodden ground instead.</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn scoffs, his mouth falling open in mischievous wondering. Rán resumes her muttering, the gurgling creek splashing near her feet as she paces. She is odd, his friend. Her mother had always said that she was a special girl, one crafted specially by the gods… one that needed protecting. Bjorn didn’t know Eira’s meaning, but she had made Bjorn swear to look out for Rán. And he had.</p><p> </p><p>Rán grabs a handful of pebbles from the bed, the lively water swirling about her ankles. He hadn’t told Rán of the promise… Bjorn’s lips twist a bit, a pang jabbing at his chest. Her mother had died, and she was taken to stay with her kith and kin. It seemed to him that the keeping of the promise was flexible, as long as Rán didn’t know of it. His hand slips against the wilting bark and Rán turns, stone at the ready.</p><p> </p><p>            “It is just me,” he clambers out from his hiding spot, arms raised in feigned deference.</p><p> </p><p>            “I know,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. She weighs the rock in her hand, “Else I would have cut you down where you stood.”</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn chuckles, forcing the sound down into his stomach to deepen it, as he had heard Audun do at his father’s table so many times. He jumps down the last of the rocky embankment, “You could not best me if you – OW!” Bjorn smacks his palm to his forehead, blinking wildly at Rán. Pain begins to well up beneath his hand.</p><p> </p><p>            She tosses up another smooth pebble, yanking it from the air, “You are not a challenge, Bjorn Ragnarsson. So, you are of no concern to me. You are still just a boy.” She sends another stone skipping down the brook’s riffle.</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn gapes at her, a cool trickle sent running down the bridge of his nose. He snatches a handful of moss from a glistening stone and presses it to his forehead. “Why do you play with the water?” He demands.</p><p> </p><p>            “The water is my friend,” she replies, eyes fixed on the sinking stone.</p><p>           </p><p>            “I am your friend.” He sloshes through the sandy bank, wagging his bloodied moss at her, “My mother, she says you are like Yggdrasil, always standing over the well of fate. I think you are just a silly girl.”</p><p> </p><p>            She sneers toward him, lips curling, “And you are foolish, Bjorn Ragnarsson.”</p><p> </p><p>            “<em>I</em> am a fool,” he laughs, the sound high and hollow in his aching head. He winces, his expression hardening, “Then explain to me, how I am the fool.”</p><p> </p><p>            She glares at him, hunched like a tiny, water troll with hateful eyes. The brook laps at her toes, sand sent running in tiny rivers around her ankles with each new swell. “There is so much you do not know… so much of the world you do not see.”</p><p> </p><p>            “And what do you see, Rán?” He calls at her, mouth hanging open in quiet protest. His breath is hard and fast in the cool, still air, the moss swelling in his hand.</p><p> </p><p>            Rán frowns at her toes, avoiding his presence altogether. She blows a tuft of red hair from her eyes, studying the imprint left in the gray sand as she leans forward, at the weaving path the water makes around her heels. Her lips move, her words barely louder than the streaming brook.</p><p> </p><p>“I forgive you,” she whispers. “I know it is hard to care for someone, to be responsible for protecting them. It takes bravery. But I know you are brave enough to do it, Bára.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Rán… speak to me,” he presses. “Just tell me, what is the matter?”</p><p> </p><p>            “Will you protect me,” her voice is low, round face turning toward him, “Bjorn Ragnarsson?”</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn’s eyes flit between Rán and the brook. The water laps quicker at her feet, sweeping her dress into the shallow waves. “You protect yourself well enough.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Will you, or will you not?”</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn sighs, eye winking at the fresh cold running to his brow. “I swore to your mother I would…” he admits. “So, I will protect you, Rán.” Blood trickles faster down his nose, moss cold and wet in his fair hand.</p><p> </p><p>             The brook swells, frothing against its bank. “And will you, Bára?” Rán whispers, turning to her reflection in the rolling waves. She bends over so her hair just brushes the water, and the brook gurgles, leasing a gentle splash. Rán’s lips turn up slightly, her flecked cheeks shining. Her chin drips with sunlit water. “It is decided, then.”</p><p> </p><p>She rises abruptly, dress sticking to her slight frame as she marches toward Bjorn. He stiffens as she grabs his wrist, tossing the bloodied ball of moss from his hand. “What are you -” Rán pushes her wet lips to his forehead, her skin soft and cool against his burning gash. His wrist is still held tightly in her hand, his pulse beating against her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>She rocks back on her heels, wiping her face against her forearm, “I see what others choose not to see, Bjorn…” She wrinkles her nose, bottom lip still stained with red. “Now come.”</p><p> </p><p>Rán pulls at his wrist, dragging him behind her up the sloping embankment. He runs his fingers against his tingling forehead and pouts in terrible confusion. “By all the gods, Rán.” He stares at his hand as she pulls him further and further up the rocky slope and into the shade of the leaning forest, his fingers coming away dry.</p><p> </p><p>The brook calls out behind them, burbling high and sweet, her words silent but her meaning heard. <em>Son of Ragnar, there is indeed much of the world you do not see.</em></p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part III</p><p> </p><p>            The door bursts open, a chilled gust running along the ribbed floorboards, biting at the flame burning bright in the main room. He stands to fill the doorway, baring a growl so low and terrible the idols on the mantle clatter at their wooden posts. Gleaming teeth smile from the wide face matted to his forehead, his great chest heaving. A broad axe hilt scratches at his sinewy neck as he strides in from the black night.</p><p> </p><p>            “Audun!!” Ragnar sings, sloshing his horn in announcement, “My dear friend.”</p><p> </p><p>            Audun chuckles to himself, the practiced effect of his glorious entrance lost on his friend. “Ragnar!” Audun throws out his arms to greet the rising Ragnar, and they embrace with hearty laughter, mead splashing down the bristled back of Audun’s bear skin coat.</p><p> </p><p>            “I was expecting you, so I started a little early.” Ragnar grins over the brim of his horn, “Come, sit.” Ragnar waves toward the knotted table and takes his place, “You know my wife.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun thuds in a seat beside him, the dark fur of his shroud spilling in rolls to the floor. He dips his head as Lagertha sets a horn for him, removing his great bear hood from his sweaty forehead. “Hello, Lagertha. It has been some time.”</p><p> </p><p>            “It is good to see you, Audun,” Lagertha lays her hand gently on his shoulder. The tenderness of her touch floods him with memories of Eira. The firelight flickers in her glassy eyes, “You and your daughter have been missed.”</p><p> </p><p>            Audun clears his throat, Eira’s kind laugh ringing in his mind. Her blurred form dances behind his eyes as Lagertha drops her hand away. Audun twists the smooth horn between his calloused palms to ground himself, “It was good to visit our kith and kin. Rán needs to know her mother’s folk for the day I’m welcomed into Valhalla.”</p><p> </p><p>            Ragnar clasps him roughly by the neck, tugging Audun’s thoughts from Eira’s ethereal form. “Look at me, Audun.” Ragnar draws him close, his icy eyes glowing in the dim room. The singing in Audun’s mind quiets as the enchantment fades, Ragnar’s voice low and earnest, “You are family… My brother. You care for mine as I do for yours.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Rán is always welcome at our table,” Lagertha nods.</p><p> </p><p>            Audun sighs heavily, his heart aching in his chest with love-longing for Eira. “The gods have truly blessed me with friends such as you.” He looks up at Ragnar still pulled close beside him. Orange shadows dance across his hard-set features, his gaze level. Ragnar nods at him in understanding, and Audun claps him hard on the back, sending a great echo through the humble lodge.</p><p> </p><p>            “Be careful with my husband, Audun,” Lagertha teases, her skirt brushing the notched floor as she turns toward the back room.</p><p> </p><p>            A chuckle builds in Audun’s throat, shaking the sting from his hand, “Are you getting old, Ragnar?”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>            Ragnar rolls his shoulders, cheek twitching up in a half-smile to hide the slightest wince, “No, Audun, just restless.” Ragnar nods toward him, “Will we talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>            “I think not,” Audun mutters. “There is nothing to say.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Fine,” Ragnar sings, “If there is nothing to say. I have something I must tell you then.” Ragnar rocks forward, tucking his horn beneath his bearded chin. “I have an idea,” he breathes, mischief creeping on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“And what is it this time, Ragnar? Did you shake hands with the trickster, Loki, while I was gone?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, nothing of the kind…” Ragnar purses his lips at his horn, thumb tapping a hollow tune. “Only Floki.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun stiffens. The fool… He’d been gone only as long as Freyr’s gift rained on the farming lands, and already Ragnar had devised plans without his knowledge. Audun settles into his chairback, crossing his thick arms across his chest. “Floki…”</p><p> </p><p>“Floki,” Ragnar nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Floki, the boatbuilder… who vowed that he would love my dear Eira for as long as he lived?” Audun slams his palm on the table, staring hard at Ragnar.</p><p> </p><p>“Every man in Kattegat swore their love to your wife, Audun,” Ragnar flickers a slight smile before grimacing into his horn.</p><p> </p><p>“That is true,” Audun frowns, flicking a large crumb from the tabletop. “Eira was blessed by the gods.” The fire spits as the logs collapse, glowing embers rising in the smoky hall. He did not like Floki, but it did not matter to Ragnar. Ragnar had always done as he pleased, and the gods smile on him all the same. Because he is favored. Audun’s only friend in the world. He turns to Ragnar, his build scattering the creeping shadows on the back wall, “Though every man swore their love to her, I alone was favored by the gods. And I won her heart in the end.”</p><p> </p><p>“And with you her heart will stay, my friend,” Ragnar lifts his horn, “for eternity.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun smashes his horn into Ragnar’s and drinks in great gulps, leaning back until mead spills down the red of his beard. He belches and wipes at his face, “I am going to hit him when I see him.”</p><p> </p><p>“That is fine,” Ragnar claps his horn on the tabletop. “Now, to business. I have asked Floki to build us a ship, one strong enough for long sea voyages.”</p><p> </p><p>“What use is a strong ship,” Audun shrugs. “It will be wasted in the east.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we will not be going east…” Ragnar leans closer, “We will be sailing west, over the open ocean.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun chuckles to himself, clapping his great breast in amusement, “We cannot sail west. I love you, Ragnar, but I will not let the goddess Rán pull me to the depths for a dream.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is no dream, Audun,” he assures, his voice lowered in earnest. “I have found a way to cross the open sea. We will sail west and find such riches that no one in Norway has seen before.” Ragnar pauses, “Audun…”</p><p> </p><p>Audun lifts a weary smile, twisting his horn in his hand, “I cannot lose her, Ragnar. Not now…”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, my friend,” Ragnar whispers. His eyes glow fiercely, brimming with unnerving sincerity, “Trust me, Audun. We will make it across the great sea… I would not ask you if I did not think it was possible.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what of the gods? Of their plans for us?” His voice is steely, his idle hands turning the horn over and over, “They may choose to laugh in our faces.”</p><p> </p><p>“They may,” Ragnar grunts, leaning into his chairback. “Or the gods may yet choose to bless us. They will look on from the great hall as we cross the sea. And by Rán and all her daughters, the goddess you named your little one after will spare us on our journey.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun nods slowly, pressing his lips together. He knows the favor on Ragnar’s life, it is undeniable. But he has lost much, while Ragnar has lost nothing. “I cannot lose, Rán. Ragnar…” Audun’s deep voice catches in his throat, “you must promise me.” Aside from his bond with Ragnar, he is not sure if the gods like him at all.</p><p> </p><p>“I will not let your beloved Eira pull you to the gates before your time, Audun,” Ragnar assures him. “Besides, Rán is a gift from the gods. Their favor shines upon you still, my friend.”</p><p> </p><p>“I trust you…” Audun swears. So long as he remains at Ragnar’s side, maybe the gods will smile upon his family once more. “I will go with you, my friend.” Audun claps his horn on the tabletop, “May the gods shine on us with their favor.”</p><p> </p><p>Ragnar smiles widely, “And may Odin reward our efforts.”</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>The door bursts open again, the fire sputtering as Bjorn marches into the room, blood smeared and drying across his face. Rán grins behind him, her eyes as stars twinkling against the black sky.</p><p> </p><p>“What is the matter with you?” Ragnar catches Bjorn’s chin in his hand as he brushes past, turning his face this way and that.</p><p> </p><p>Rán leaps into Audun’s great lap, giggling as he wraps his arms around her, “Luckily, Bjorn has a hard head.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am fine.” Bjorn bats his father’s hands away, scowling as he sits down at the table. He wipes at his face with his sleeve, glaring at Rán. Ragnar smirks and pushes his horn toward Bjorn, nodding at it as an older brother might.</p><p> </p><p>“And what are you doing here, you great bear?” Bjorn juts his chin out at Audun, taking the horn in both of his stained hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I came to fetch my daughter, little bear,” Audun teases, Bjorn bristling at the nick name. “And to tell you of news.”</p><p> </p><p>            “What news?” Rán looks up at him, her wide eyes peeking through her orange tuffs.</p><p> </p><p>            “Ragnar and I will be sailing West to raid. He has already commissioned a boat.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Then I will go, too,” Rán crosses her arms. “You will need me.”</p><p> </p><p>            Audun glances at Ragnar, who bites busily at his fingernails.</p><p> </p><p>            “You are just a girl!” Bjorn huffs, licking the mead from his upper lip. “You cannot go on a raid.”</p><p> </p><p>            “I’d be of more use than you,” she sneers at him.</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn sucks in air, pointing accusingly at Rán when Ragnar interrupts him, “Neither of you will go on any raid until you are old enough to wield a sword.” He rolls his head toward Bjorn, “Could you face me, Bjorn, if I were an opponent on the field of battle?” His eyes flick toward Audun, “Or him? Think before you speak.” He settles into his chair back, “Both of you.”</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn stares quietly into his mead, Rán shifting in Audun’s lap so she can whisper into his ear, “But you need me, Father.”</p><p> </p><p>            Audun pets her bright curls, her cheek fitting in the nook of his rough palm, “I do need you, Rán. But not there. Not now. You must stay with Bjorn.” Audun nods toward the boy still sulking into his cup. “One day, you may sail with me. And I will be glad for your company. And your protection,” he nuzzles his nose into her forehead, her laugh ringing high and soft in the crackling room.</p><p> </p><p>            “When do you leave, father?” Bjorn turns to Ragnar, his boyish voice low and serious.</p><p> </p><p>            Ragnar leans his head back against the wall, looking up at the shadows warring against each other on the low ceiling. “We sail at the next moon, when she hangs fat in the sky.” He folds his hands across his chest, eyes fluttering closed, “We will sail then if the gods will it.”</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part IV</p><p> </p><p>            Rán plops beside Ragnar on the cliff’s edge. Bjorn had refused to come with her, telling her that it was a bad idea. But she had come anyway. She would have her say.</p><p> </p><p>            She fidgets on the rocks digging sharply at her bum. She looks at Ragnar, but he stares off over the water, his face hard and weary. She decides to look off into the nothingness, too. They could have a bonding moment, her and her new father…</p><p> </p><p>The cold wind whips wildly at her hair, pushing at her back as if to knock her off. The sea far below cries mutely beneath the screaming wind. Maybe her mother should have prayed to Kári, the wind god, instead. Perhaps Kári did not like Ægir, and that is why he tried with all his might to push her from the cliff. It would be no use, though. Kári would push her only into the sea below, where her imminent death would be greeted with sure life. It was a nice thought, to be pushed. But there were no rocks below, since the sea near Kattigat was mighty and always angry. She was stuck with Ægir and his many women. She was fated to be with the water, with Bjorn, and with Ragnar Lothbrok.</p><p> </p><p>“How did he die,” she asks.</p><p> </p><p>Ragnar stares out at nothing, until his eyes fill. He bats them and looks at her, head hanging as a boy’s would, as Bjorn’s would. “He died well.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” she whispers, “The water told me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Was Bjorn with you… at the river?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><p>She kicks her feet out over the open space, her tangled locks catching on her pointy nose in the fierce wind. “You fought near the water?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, we fought beside a river.” He shifts beside her to look her in the face. His breath catches and he grabs at his side. It takes him some time to catch it back. But he does. “It was an ambush. We were not prepared.” He shakes his head, grimacing, “Your father took half of the men, and I took the other half. We defended both sides of the river, because our ships were downstream, hidden in the bay.” He looks at her, his icy eyes glowing against the white cliffs.</p><p> </p><p>“Continue.” She holds her voice as steady as she can, and she closes her eyes. Maybe this way she will not cry. “I want to know.”</p><p> </p><p>“The battle was bloody, and endless. We were pushed to the water. The English were too heavy in the current with their armor, so we drowned them. It went on like this until the sun was low. I saw your father on the other side of the bank when an Englishman cut me. He pushed me below the water, and I was sure I was going to die. Then his weight was lifted and your father drug me from the river… The battle was soon over.” His voice cracks. And he pauses.</p><p> </p><p>Rán breathes carefully, quietly, and pulls her arms around herself. She squeezes her eyes tighter at the burn in her nose. She knows what happens. But she needs to hear it from him for it to be true.</p><p> </p><p>“We waded down the river until dark. Your father and I traded stories the whole way. I could tell he was hurting, but we kept going. He made a bet that you would marry Bjorn one day. And he asked if it would please me.” Ragnar sniffles, “I told him it would… that he was my best friend. And he collapsed into the river. I tried to wake him…”</p><p> </p><p>Rán stands quickly, eyes still pressed closed. She wills her voice to remain steady, “I would push you off the edge and into the water. You deserve it. But then you would be healed, because I had touched you. And I do not want you to lose this pain so quickly…” She brushes past him, looking only at the cracked ground. Her father’s voice rings sweetly in her mind, and she stops. She balls her fists to keep from screaming and turns to Ragnar. His bright blue eyes are filled with tears, his cheeks twitching. His pain is deep, she can see it. But hers is deeper.</p><p> </p><p>“Ragnar Lothbrook, you must fulfill my father’s promise. I wish to go raiding with you. I will make sure that you return to Bjorn and your family… as my father would have had I been with you.”</p><p> </p><p>He steels himself, “You may raid with me, Rán. You are your father’s daughter. And I will do my best. I am so sorry, Rán…” Bjorn’s saddened eyes stare back at her.</p><p> </p><p>She turns away and walks with measured steps down the cliff’s grassy slope. They are too much alike. And she cannot stand to be with Bjorn at the moment. She cannot bear both her sadness and his pity for her. She is not strong enough.</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part V</p><p> </p><p>            Bjorn pauses at the forest’s edge, peeling off his shoes and continuing barefoot down the rocky bank. He hops lightly from stone to stone, moss thick and spongy beneath his feet. Water trickles up over his toes as he reaches the shallows.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Bára,” he sighs. He steps in deeper as she gurgles in reply, her gentle waves lapping at his waist, pulling him toward the low island in the center of her stream. His feet skid atop a submerged stone and he grabs hold of an exposed edge. “Thanks, Bára,” he grunts, struggling to pull himself up onto the jagged ledge.</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn shakes the wet from his bones, panting, and grudgingly sits beside Rán. He peels off his sticking shirt and flings it onto a dry rock, “My father said you threatened to throw him from a cliff.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did,” she says dryly.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you have liked to?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, very much so. But he would have benefitted from the experience, and I could not have that.” She looks at him, her eyes wide and red. “I love your father, Bjorn. I am not angry with him… I am only disappointed in myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn wrinkles his nose, “But why?”</p><p> </p><p>“I would have saved him, if I were there,” she responds, softly. “It is my fault that he is dead.”</p><p> </p><p>“You could not have known,” Bjorn whispers.</p><p> </p><p>“But you were with me, here, with Bára,” her eyes well. “He died in the water, when he should have lived.”</p><p> </p><p>“Rán, you cannot stop death.” Bjorn looks at the water swelling at his feet, hoping for some advice. But Bára is silent, and recedes as quickly as she appeared. “Rán,” he turns to her, his face twisting with the seriousness of his task. But she’s staring at him, her toothy grin beaming despite the tear dripping down her flecked cheek. “What is the matter with you,” he mutters.</p><p> </p><p>“Kiss me,” she whispers, wiping her tear forcefully from her chin.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Bjorn is suddenly aware of his lack of clothes.</p><p> </p><p>“Please, your father promised my father before he died.” She pouts.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Bjorn’s cheeks flush with irritation, scoffing, “What did Ragnar promise?”</p><p> </p><p>“Only that we would be wed.” Rán sings. “Would that not be a sight? You and I screaming at each other with little, devilish children running about…”</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn leans forward and pecks her on the cheek. She throws her hand to her face, her eyes growing wide. He clears his throat, hoping to deepen it, “There… for your father.” She blushes at him and he frowns at Bára who is lapping at his toes. “The promise is fulfilled.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Good,” Rán rubs at her dimpled cheek, “I agree. The promise is fulfilled.”</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn peers at her. She splashes a hand through the water, still giddy, her cheeks splotched with the color of her hair. “What do you plan to do?”</p><p> </p><p>“I will raid with your father… to make sure that he returns to you.” She looks over the rolling waves, her soft features relaxed. She seems contented, despite everything.</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn folds his arms across himself, “I do not deserve your friendship.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not,” she sighs. “But one day, you may find that you do.”</p><p> </p><p>The water burbles between them, the wind blowing chilly on his chest. He pulls himself tighter, “I will go with you, Rán.” He nods out over the rippling current, “You need not be alone to fight every battle.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“No,” she agrees, leaning toward him. She tackles his neck, roughing his hair with an icy hand as he hollers at her. He shoves her away, sending her clutching at her sides in giggling laughter, “Of course, I will have the mighty, Bjorn Ragnarsson, to protect me. The brave son of Ragnar and the little stream from Kattegat. What have we to fear?”</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part VI</p><p> </p><p>            Her fists ache at her sides, nails stuck into her palms. Rán stands alone in the marketplace.</p><p> </p><p>She had had no words for him when Lagertha left, offered no kindness to ease his burden. What could she say concerning mothers - that he should be thankful to have two? She didn’t have the mind to think, or the will to offer Bjorn comfort, so they stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the silent bustle of the marketplace. And she had no words for him when he turned to look at her with his sad, blinking eyes. She had no permission to give. Rán could only take in their wideness, the size of his remorse weighing on his welling tears. The weight he felt for her was not so great as the one he felt for Lagertha. So, she had no words for him when he turned to leave. She only followed him with her eyes as he ran after the cart, her non-words and silent thoughts sticking to her mind like mud.</p><p> </p><p>            She stood there for hours, fixed in the hardening of her mind, palms bleeding. She can feel the words burying in the mire, see their shape as they sink in the thickening gray. But they are no more accessible than they were before, words she should have shared that are now laid deeply inside her. That’s the problem with non-words. There’s so much to say, but no way to say it. So, the silence just sinks inside until you’re stuck with the weight of muddy words.</p><p> </p><p>            A hand lays softly on her shoulder, “I know how you must feel.” Aslaug’s voice carries sweetly through the empty stalls, “It is hard to see the ones you love leave.”</p><p> </p><p>            Rán spits into the dirt, staring past the hillside Bjorn disappeared over, “Do not think that you will replace Lagertha.”</p><p> </p><p>            “It’s not my intention,” Aslaug whispers, “I only wish to care for those who remain…”</p><p> </p><p>            “I am here for Ragnar. And I will remain here for when Bjorn returns.” Rán digs her nails deeper into her hand, “But you and I will not speak to each other.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Rán –”</p><p> </p><p>            “No,” Rán wriggles from Aslaug’s gently placed hand, steeling her voice, “I will not forget that it was you who pushed him from my life.” She breaks free and sprints toward the forest, angry with Bjorn and embarrassed by her threats to Aslaug.</p><p> </p><p>She chose to be mean out of loyalty to Bjorn, but Bjorn did not have to live with the woman. He could despise his second mother from afar. It did not seem fair to Rán. Aslaug had the same touch Rán’s mother once had… How could Bjorn be angry to have been given a choice?</p><p> </p><p>Rán’s bare feet pound against the leafy forest floor, heavy thoughts rapping against her skull. Mother is a ghost, as is father. Only Bjorn has breath in his lungs and warm arms to wrap around her. Arms taken from her by Aslaug… because she could. Rán resolves in herself to despise the woman who forced out her protector, her only friend.</p><p>           </p><p>            <em>Save one,</em> the brook burbles as Rán reaches the clearing. <em>There is still one who flows through the forgotten places of memory… still one who remains to protect you, little sea.</em></p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part VII</p><p> </p><p>Rán crouches low beside Ragnar in the leafy brush, the filtered dusk casting a shadowy mosaic across his rigid form.</p><p> </p><p>“Well?” he mouths toward her, squinting through the dense greenery at the small encampment.</p><p> </p><p>She leans toward a hole in the tangled shrubbery, wincing at the unnatural shine. Men in gleaming silver sit in huddles of five around winking fires, twenty in all encircling a fine tent with streaming flags. They speak in hushed whispers, tarnished cups held heavy in their idle hands. They’ll be slow in their fine armor, she thinks, and Ragnar’s men will leave with the tent-man’s riches. Maybe she’ll take a few of the glittering flags – one for Ubbe, one for Hvitserk, and one for safe-keeping.</p><p> </p><p>She rocks back on her heels, the strange hum of Englisc filling the forest space. An odd tactic, to obscure the movements of the forest, to confuse your enemies with noise – all while you surround them in quiet. The warning river, the watchful birds, the sentinel deer, all are drowned beneath the din of their clumsy accents - an intrusion on the stillness she relies on as a scout. It’s an ugly language, she thinks to herself.</p><p> </p><p>Ragnar nudges her with his shoulder, knocking her from her heels with a start. She catches herself against a rotting trunk stuck in the ground, fist crackling against browning leaves. The man nearest them turns sharply from his drink, a balding man with a patchy beard and nervous hands. He clatters against his stool as he peers through the brush at Rán, fingers searching for the hilt at his side. She pauses, blood pounding in her ears as his eyes shift from her to Ragnar. The bald man leans slowly forward, face beat red as he wraps his fist around the hilt of his sword. A clang rings through the air and the bald man lurches in his stool, sending the young man behind him into a fit of laughter. The bald man grimaces as he turns, shoving the young one and his empty cup from his seat. The company chuckles at the exchange, speaking in more of their ugly language.</p><p> </p><p>Rán sneers at Ragnar, motioning a curse at him with her hand. He rolls his shoulders smugly as she settles back on her heels, taking care to balance herself this time. He’s told her to watch her stance before. He is still so bold that he’d run the risk of fighting twenty men to make a point. But he is the best warrior and the best strategist she has seen. And her stance will be perfect from now on.</p><p> </p><p>He nods toward her, his hands folded carefully across his thighs. She had done as he had asked. Rán raises her head a bit and holds up a single finger. A wide smile spreads across his handsome face. They had been searching the entire coast for a river she could speak to. And she had just found one, downwind of the English encampment. She pats Ragnar on the shoulder and picks her way back through the brush, away from the ugly Englisc and off toward the little river.</p><p> </p><p>She had named the river Hrönn, after another of Ægir’s daughters. Hrönn was a little spiteful thing from what Rán could figure, tossing and turning whenever Rán had spoken of their plans for Lindesege. She was happy to have met Hrönn, both to gain Ragnar’s favor and to gain the loyalty of a new river. Bára would be pleased to know that she, too, has kin in the world. Bára is kind, and a fierce protector. She rolls at her shores, and sings when she plays with smoothed stones. Rán enjoys having a softer counterpart. Bára is probably Bjorn’s equal. They both have such tenderness; they are so different from Rán…</p><p> </p><p>Rán clears the noisy brush, the ugly talk of shining men far behind her. She is alone in the forest’s stillness. She sucks in the thin air, content to take in the telling silence. In the silence she can hear the forest’s thoughts, hear its movements. And this is how she plans for battles. Ragnar will be pleased.</p><p> </p><p>Hrönn calls from the distance, her voice low and rumbling. Rán skips quietly through the dampened grass, off toward her equal. If Bjorn is Bára’s, then Rán could stand to have Hrönn as an ally. A river who echoes Rán’s thoughts, who guesses her deeds and urges her to act. It will be fun to drown the Englishmen, she thinks. She’s never done such a thing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hurry, little sea. It has been some time since I’ve had such fun…</em>
</p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part VIII</p><p> </p><p>            “Hello, little Bára,” Bjorn whispers, kneeling down to run his hand through her waters. “It has been some time.”</p><p> </p><p>            Bára pulls at his hand, splashing up about his forearm. He chuckles when she tugs harder at him, soaking his sleeve up to his elbow.</p><p> </p><p>            “You are going to have to do better than that if you want to pull me in,” he grins. “I am not the boy I once was.”</p><p> </p><p>            Bára concedes, and rolls gently about his hand in question. She lifts it on a wave and tosses it side to side in playful fondness, testing the weight of it. He is not the lithe, little boy he was when he left. She gurgles and swirls around his fingers in welcoming.</p><p> </p><p>            “I have hated you,” Rán calls. She hops down the last of the rocky embankment, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have thought of your leaving every day.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Hello, Rán.” His voice carries the same, its kindness only deepened by age. He squats awkwardly beside Bára, watching Rán. The boy with sandy hair now has shoulders larger than Ragnar’s, and a face just as handsome. “You have grown beautifully,” he whispers.</p><p> </p><p>            “You are real, Bjorn?” Rán tightens her arms across her chest. “I have seen you here… standing beside Bára, no older than a boy.”  </p><p> </p><p>            “Yes,” he stands, wiping his hands across his trousers. “Yes, I am real, Rán…” He clears his throat and points through the forest, “Lagertha is here, too. We arrived at high day.”</p><p> </p><p>            Rán puckers her lips into a frown. He fiddles with his thumb and folds his hands at his waist. “It is good to see you,” he says. Bára’s damp soaks into his shoes and he steps closer to Rán, shaking the wet from his feet. He breathes out a laugh, “It is good to see that she is still the same.”</p><p> </p><p>            Rán stares down at the smooth rocks at her feet. “You remembered…”</p><p> </p><p>            “Yes. If I ever lost you, I should go first to Bára… that she would know where you would be.”</p><p> </p><p>            “You did not lose me,” Rán snaps, looking up into his face. His breath is warm, his body near to hers. She has the urge to slap him.</p><p> </p><p>            “I am sorry, Rán,” he whispers. “I could not bear it, to be without Lagertha.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>            “I do not know what that is like,” Rán says flatly. She sighs, dropping her arms to her sides, “I understand, Bjorn. And I waited… I had always hoped you would return, but I could not be certain.”</p><p> </p><p>            “It seems the gods knew what was in store for us,” he smiles. “And they have always been a friend to you.”</p><p> </p><p>            “Yes, a friend to me… and you had better remember. If you leave me again, I will have Bára drag you to Kattegat so I can throw you from the cliffs.”</p><p> </p><p>            “It is good to see you, Rán,” he sighs. “I have missed your company. What –” He looks down at the water swelling about his ankles and yelps as he’s swept out into the middle of the river.</p><p> </p><p>            “And Bára has certainly missed yours. Until tomorrow, Bjorn.”</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part IX</p><p> </p><p>            “Where is she!?” Bjorn yells, kicking open the sagging door. A group of women blink at him from a huddle in the center of the room, all with bright eyes and fiery hair. He throws his axe to the ground, blood sent splattering across the gnarled wall. “Where is Rán!?”</p><p> </p><p>            A young girl glances at the side door.</p><p> </p><p>            “Rán,” he breathes, ducking beneath the sagging ceiling as he hurries through the crowded room.</p><p> </p><p>She throws her hands up as he passes, catching the edge of his tunic, “You must leave her!” He pushes past and she tumbles backward into the huddle with a yelp.</p><p> </p><p>“I am sure she is fine, Bjorn,” Canute stumbles in after him, bowing apologetically at the now scowling women. A girl with flushing cheeks points accusingly into a room, rubbing at her head. “Thank you, kindly.” He smiles awkwardly at them as he brushes past, grime dripping from his sword still tethered to his belt.</p><p> </p><p>“Rán?” Bjorn pulls aside the knitted quilt hanging from the ceiling. A small form lies still on the cot beneath the soiled and bloody sheets. “Rán,” he whispers, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Rán, can you hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>Canute steps noisily into the sunken room. Bjorn’s wiping at his face, bent over a small figure on the bed. “By the gods,” Canute pauses, raising his hand to his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Rán?” Bjorn breathes shakily, reaching for the corner of the sheet. He pulls it away slowly, her red curls laying in dirtied knots on the pillow, her pale forehead shining with sweat in the dim light. A tear rolls from his chin and drips to her nose, splattering and running in little rivers down her face. She wrinkles her nose and snorts.</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn gapes at her, wiping angrily at his hot tears, “You are the worst woman I have ever met.”</p><p> </p><p>Canute giggles in the corner, the flush-faced girl now grinning at his elbow. She flips her wild hair over her shoulder as she prances from the room, “I told you to leave her.”</p><p> </p><p>Rán laughs sweetly and pulls Bjorn’s bloodied face to hers, catching his mouth on her lips. “I love you, Bjorn.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you died,” he pulls away, brows furrowed seriously. She tightens her grip around his neck and pulls him on top of her. Her blue eyes blink playfully into his face, her smile wide despite her pallor.</p><p> </p><p>She strokes his cheek, “I could never die without you at my side.”</p><p> </p><p>He presses his forehead to hers, her skin burning against the coolness of his. “I got word during battle that you had been injured.” His jaw clenches in her hand, “I searched the entire field for you, praying that you had been spared. Canute told me you had been seen with your kith.”</p><p> </p><p>Rán lifts his face slowly. His eyes are bloodshot and teary, and he kisses her hand, his lips trembling. “I would not leave you, Bjorn,” she whispers. “I have two protectors, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>Bjorn nods. “I remember,” he sniffles, steadying his breath. He musters a boyish smile for her, as wide as he can manage without the drying blood tugging at his whiskers.</p><p> </p><p>She giggles and pushes his face away harshly, “Why must you torture me with your looks. I am already wounded.”</p><p> </p><p>His smile drops. “Where?” he demands. She rubs her hand over his face, smooshing his nose. He spits the dirt and blood from his lips onto the floor, glaring at her.</p><p> </p><p>“I will be fine, Bjorn,” she sighs, her cheeks dimpling with delight. “Just bring me to the water’s edge, and you will see.”</p><p> </p><p>Canute sings from the doorway, “The little girl did demand that we leave Rán be, Bjorn.” Rán glowers threateningly at him.</p><p> </p><p>“This is true, Canute.” Bjorn kisses Rán’s burning forehead as she scoffs at him. “We should leave the shieldmaiden be.”<br/>
<br/>
            “You cannot just leave me here, Bjorn,” she whines as Bjorn lifts himself from the bed. “You must take me with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I believe that Canute is right,” Bjorn nods, lips ticking up in a grin. “I will see you tomorrow once you have rested.”</p><p> </p><p>They turn into the small, sinking hall, Rán yelling obscenities after them. “Thank you for caring for her,” Bjorn nods, sheepishly. He bends to grab his axe, and wipes the blood from the wall. Only it smears into a ruddy brown, so he wipes at it harder.</p><p> </p><p>“We will be back with payment,” Canute pushes Bjorn out the door, dusting the wall with his hand. “Thank you, kindly.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bacraut,” the young girl mutters as the door creaks closed, marching into the side room to appease the screaming woman.</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part X</p><p> </p><p>            The damp clings to his skin, the clouds high above weighing heavy and gray on the quiet hill. Ragnar brushes the leaves from the mound, taking care so the earth lays still beneath his touch.<strike></strike></p><p> </p><p>            “How have you been, my friend?” He breathes.</p><p> </p><p>The brook burbles quietly far behind the misty veil, the tinkling of water on stone echoing up into the clearing. It echoes as a thousand of Thor’s anvils. And it echoes as a thousand English mass bells. They are bells, Ragnar decides. Bells which call for gatherings on mornings like this one.</p><p> </p><p>“This truly is where your God rests, Athelstan. It must be. I am never more at peace than when I am here with you.” Ragnar rests his hand on the earth, dirt welling up over his scarred, worn skin. He presses down, deeper, until the coolness envelopes his fingers. “It is so hard to not be near to you,” he whispers hoarsely. “And it is so painful, knowing that you will not be there to greet me at the gates.” A fierce warmth bites at his eyes and he turns away, the river bells still singing softly in the distance. The air sits thick in his throat and he blows a forceful breath, “I told myself I would not become emotional, Athelstan.”</p><p> </p><p>He rocks backward, pulling his hand from the clinging earth. His fingers shake with cold and a grin ticks up on his lips, “It has been so many years, my friend, and I’m still angry with you.” He brushes the earth back into its place, shifting the dirt unevenly beneath his trembling palm. “I am an old man now, but you will always remember me as I was. We were fearless then, the two of us.” He sniffles, flexing his hand to drive the cold from his bones, “But now, Athelstan, all I am is afraid. And I am ashamed. I am afraid of the legacy I leave and angry with myself for fearing this fate. I do not want this to define whatever is left of my life…” He clears his throat and pats the grave firmly, shifting on the damp grass. “So, I have come to ask for your friendly counsel, one last time.”</p><p> </p><p>Ragnar sighs a wispy breath that curls up into the hanging fog. “I have come to give you my confession.” He bobs his head, smiling widely down at his fidgeting hands. “I learned of this in England. I thought you would be pleased.” He makes the sign of the cross slowly, letting his hand linger solemnly over his heart. “And now for my confession,” he drops his hand to his lap. “I still ache at the memory of you, Athelstan. And I am angry with your God. I am angry that you spoke of his goodness and he repaid you with death. Because death to your god is not death to Odin.” He shakes his head, tugging at the grass beside him, “We Vikings long for death, for Valhalla. It is the only thing there is for us to do. We fight, and we die. But you, Christians… you long for life. To live alive with your God… as he is alive.” Ragnar frowns at the mound of earth, “You know, your God has always reminded me of Odin. That he is a good father. And I have found that I have grown to love him.” Ragnar’s voice softens, “I love him as I do Odin.”</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in hard through his nose, running his hand over his prickly head. “What am I to do, Athelstan. Odin took my daughter. But God has taken you. How am I to make this comparison? How do I continue to love him when he did not spare you.” A tear drips down to his chin and he wipes at his face. “How do I make this decision, Athelstan? How do I choose between Heaven and Valhalla…” He buries his face in both hands, the river bells ringing loudly in his friend’s silence. His breath catches in his throat, “And how do I choose when you are not here to help me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ragnar sniffles into his sleeve, “I hear them both, Athelstan. I hear Thor in the rains, and I hear your God in the stillness. And here you are… silent.” Ragnar huffs, rubbing the wetness from his cheeks. He claps the mound, groaning as he pushes himself to his feet. “This will be the last time I visit you, my friend. I am going to England. And I am sure that I will die there.” He smiles boyishly, lines wrinkling his face. “If I feel his stillness on that day, then I know that your God has welcomed me into his Heaven.” Ragnar turns on his heels, yelling over his shoulder, “And I will force you to go apologize to Gyda for making me come to you!”</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Part XI</p><p> </p><p>         Warriors roar all about Rán, the air thick with the heat of fighting bodies. A sword comes down above her, slow to her eyes, and her hands move quicker. She rips a hole up the warrior’s belly, tearing a terrible scream from his chest. His voice sounds distant to her ears, a whine in the great din. She drops him to the ground. That is the way of things. An arrow rips through her collar and knocks her to her knees. Bright blood spurts into her vision and she crawls from the body of the warrior she felled, another arrow landing in the hole of his belly. She claws at her chest and pushes herself up from the mud, her axe dangling in her numbing hand. An arrow thuds into the skull of the shieldmaiden to her left, her mouth hanging open as she sways on her feet. Rán tracks the arch of the shot and sees them standing at the edge of the ridge, men she didn’t recognize, looking to a giant with bright, curly hair. Her kin – Halvar, whom she had met with her father as a child. And in his hands is a large bow, bent into a smile. She throws herself to the ground as another arrow sails over her head. Her uncle is a traitor, and he knows her by her hair. He knows that she is Bjorn’s woman.</p><p>        </p><p>          She looks for Bjorn on the battlefield, ducking beneath a swinging shield and the two men grappling around it. They knock into her, the three of them tumbling together into the mud. One grabs at her axe and she kicks into him, smashing his nose into his face as she pushes herself to her feet. And she sees Bjorn through the fray, roaring at two smaller men. He rips a thrusting spear from their hands and drives it through the chest of the one nearest him. A pang rips through her and Rán clutches at her collar, squeezing her eyes shut. She forces breath through her burning lungs, pushes reason into her hurried mind. He is too far, and she is not lucid enough to make it to him without running into an axe. She turns toward the ridge, the men and her kin now cutting down shieldmaidens and warriors battling on the fringes. They step over the felled bodies, eyes dark and smiles gleaming. Rán sidesteps another warring pair, a sword nearly catching her in the knee. She spins sluggishly, catching sight of the tree line; it is not so far from her position. She glances at the ridge, her slick hair whipping at her face. The men push through shields, their mouths moving quickly but their yells drowned by the fierce noise of battle.</p><p> </p><p>         She runs. The forest air is sweeter than normal, gathering sticky in the back of her throat.  It’s much thinner here than on the hot field. She presses her hand to her collar, slick blood seeping past her fingers. She pants hard, her body burning with each footfall. And they call from behind her, whooping and yelling, her uncle’s voice heard above the rest. An arrow bites at her thigh and she pushes herself off the nearest tree to keep her balance. She has to remember to thank Ragnar for all his teasing.</p><p> </p><p>         “Come, Rán! Let us celebrate our victory with Bjorn’s head on my table!”</p><p> </p><p>         Rán sees the light of the clearing ahead and the mighty roaring of the river fills the forest. “Bára!” she screams, leaping and tumbling down the rocky embankment. The laughter of the men sounds off behind her, their footfalls heavy in the forest litter. Her tears stick hot to her face, her chest cold against the blood soaking her shirt. Rán pushes herself to her knees, yelling and shaking with the effort. She fixes her eyes on the brook breaking at its border, hitting white against the rocks. “Bára,” she cries, pushing herself forward against the slippery stones.      </p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>         Bjorn rips the spear from the warrior’s hand and drives it into his chest, splitting open cloth, flesh, and bone. A scream sounds from behind and Bjorn pulls the axe from the warrior’s belt, hurling it into the neck of the charging shield-bearer. <em>Bjorn.</em> He whirls around, wiping the battle from his eyes, flinging the dripping blood onto the speared warrior at his feet. <em>Protector.</em></p><p>        </p><p>         “Rán?” Bjorn calls, huffing as he paces. He searches the battle for her, for the head-full of bouncing, red curls. “Rán,” he pants, shoving a shieldmaiden out of his way. And he sees her, a head of curls disappearing past the tree line. An arrow pocks the birch where her head had just been. Bjorn head-butts the man fighting beside him, pushing him to the mud and stepping over his crumpled form. A group of men walk into the forest, the tallest wielding a bow with a head-full of red.</p><p> </p><p>“No!” Bjorn yells, pushing through a tangle of shields. He throws his elbow toward a warrior’s face, blood and fluid giving way as an eye bursts against his bone. And he slides through the narrow opening of bodies, pushing off into a sprint through the battle. The tree line cannot be more than 120 fot away. He spins to dodge a swinging club, the cries around him fading as trees grow larger before him. <em>Bjorn.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>All breath is knocked from his lungs and he hits the mud, hard. A burly man screams into his face, pinning Bjorn’s cheek to the grime until earth and blood fill his mouth. <em>Bjorn. </em>Bjorn roars into the mud and slams his fist into the man’s thick jaw. He gasps for breath as the hands go slack against his face, the warrior falling limply on top of him. “Rán,” he coughs the black up from his stinging throat, kicking out from underneath the warrior. He rolls the man off his chest and pushes himself to his knees, his breath catching in the pain in his ribs. “I am coming…” Bjorn staggers to his feet, sidestepping a swinging shield. Mud gives way to soggy leaves. The air hangs thinly along the forest’s edge.    </p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>         “Rán!” he screams, his footfalls heavy in his ears. The forest answers in deafening silence. An arrow juts out from the side of a wilting birch, a fistful of blood smattered beside it. <em>Bjorn. </em>“Rán!” He leaps down the rocky embankment and lands in the shape of her blood. It wets his hands, shining bright against his pale skin – her lifeblood. He roars at the stones and drags his axe into his hands, “Where are you, Halvar?” Bjorn rises to his feet, whirling around. “Show yourself!” Blood laps in Bára’s shallows. “Halvar!” There are no bodies. No weapons. There is no struggle. There is only Rán’s print on the bank. And Bára.</p><p> </p><p>         “Where is she?” he turns. The water laps and rolls, blood swirling in little streams. “Bára, answer me!” He beats his chest with his axe, “Where is she!” Bjorn screams at the water until his chest aches, his eyes burning at the blood dripping from his hair. And he falls to his knees, weeping. He buries his head in his hands, Rán’s blood staining his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>         Bára splashes at the rocky edge, singing sweetly through the empty space of the forest, over the distant cries of battle. Her words are not heard but her meaning felt. <em>Son of Ragnar, do you remember?</em></p><p> </p><p>         And Rán’s young voice fills his mind, “You know the little brook on the western forest’s edge? Well, I named her. I named her Bára. And I asked her to be my protector, forever. She promised to me that she would. So, if you ever find that you’ve lost me, Bjorn Ragnarsson, just run to Bára, my protector. She will know where I am.”</p><p> </p><p>         “Bára, please,” he groans, pressing his fists to his skull. “Tell me where she is,” he cries.</p><p> </p><p>         <em>Oh, little protector,</em> Bára burbles, washing the stained stones white. <em>There is much of the world that you do not see.</em></p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Director’s Cuts</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>“And how do I choose when you are not here to help me!” Ragnar yells, staring at the unmoving earth, “I hate you for leaving me!”</p><p> </p><p>“I cannot choose,” he sobs, burying his face into his hand. He closes his eyes and breathes, the air thick in his throat. “I ache, Athelstan, at the memory of you.”</p><p> </p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>Ragnar rolls his shoulder, cheek twitching up in a half-smile to hide the slightest wince, “No, Audun, just restless.” He rocks forward, tucking his horn beneath his bearded chin, “I have an idea.” His eyes glow an icy blue in the warm room, a smile creeping on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“And what is it this time, Ragnar? Did you shake hands with the trickster, Loki, while I was gone?” Orange shadows dance across Audun’s hard-set features, his gaze level.</p><p> </p><p>“No, nothing of the kind…” Ragnar purses his lips at his horn, thumb tapping a hollow tune. “Only Floki.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun settles into his chairback, crossing his thick arms across his chest. “Floki…”</p><p> </p><p>“Floki,” Ragnar nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Floki, the boatbuilder, who vowed that he would love my dear Eira for as long as he lives…” Audun slams his palm on the table, rattling the floorboards beneath.</p><p> </p><p>“Every man in Kattegat swore their love to your wife, Audun,” Ragnar flickers a slight smile before grimacing into his horn.</p><p> </p><p>“That is true,” Audun frowns, flicking a large crumb from the tabletop. “Eira was blessed by the gods.” The fire spits as the logs collapse, glowing embers rising in the smoky hall. Audun’s eyes gleam, a grin building on his face. He turns to Ragnar, his build scattering the creeping shadows on the back wall, “but I won her heart in the end.”</p><p> </p><p>“And with you her heart will stay, my friend,” Ragnar lifts his horn, “for eternity.”</p><p> </p><p>Audun smashes his horn into Ragnar’s and drinks in great gulps, leaning back until mead spills down the red of his beard. “Ahhh,” he wipes at his face, “I am going to hit him when I see him.”</p><p>»»»</p><p> </p><p>            “If it is meant by the gods, then it will happen. If it is not, then it will not. That is why life is simple. I do not know why you have to complicate it, Floki.</p><p> </p>
<ul>
<li>Bjorn’s one-liner</li>
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